A dark night, a full moon shed sheds bountiful light on an undeserving street. A man walks in black walks down the street, he stops and looks at the moon; his face is paler than the moon, yet his soul is as black as the darkest alley on the darkest night, he should be dead, but he draws in a tortured breath, tethered here by innocents death and retribution. "It ends soon..." he says, "So soon".
Three years ago on a night much like this, two innocent doves had their wings clipped, standing in front of St. Peter, only one of the doves passed through the gate; the other, his heart weighed with a deep thirst for revenge, seeing this, St. Peter allowed the dove to return and make right this wrong which was done to him. As the dove awaited his return, his feathers became a reflection of his soul, staining black by the hate which plagues him, for our dove was no more, for he had been reborn a Crow...